


Midnight on the Rooftop

by This_Time_I_Wont_Regret_My_Username



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Blood, Domestic, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Human Kreacher, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kissing at Midnight, M/M, Melancholy, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26459032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_Time_I_Wont_Regret_My_Username/pseuds/This_Time_I_Wont_Regret_My_Username
Summary: It's June 28, 2018. Harry wakes in Grimmauld Place to find the other side of the bed empty, knowing immediately that Ben must be on the roof.Dobby would've turned fifty today.
Relationships: Kreacher/Harry Potter
Comments: 15
Kudos: 12





	Midnight on the Rooftop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [triggerlil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Lils! Have some short, angsty (probably ooc let's be honest) Harry/Ben Ignatius Kreacher to soothe your soul. I’m so lucky to call you my friend, and honestly idk what I’d do without you. You're absolutely amazing, and I could probably write a whole essay about it, but I'll spare you from my gushy feelings. ;) Ilysm! <3 
> 
> House elves in this universe are humans with unique magical abilities (apparating past wards, performing wandless and wordless magic, etc.) I’m too tired to sort out a new timeline right now, but Kreacher is fifty and Harry is forty. Sorry for any wonky emotions/moments from Ben and Harry, btw. Very sleep deprived LOL.
> 
> Also, tysm to Corinne (the lovely tigerlilycorinne!) for beta-ing this on such short notice and totally taking the Harry/Kreacher bomb without blinking!! <3

The floorboards groan under Harry’s weight as he walks up the stairs of Grimmauld Place, blinking sleep from his eyes and rubbing his face. His wand lights the way, the portraits groaning their complaints and “ _smother that bloody light!”_ as he walks by. On top of that, his joints pop loudly every other step, disturbing the stillness of the night and probably waking everyone within a three-kilometre radius. 

He sighs as his bad knee gives a particularly loud pop. He’s getting old. 

He only has to walk two flights of stairs to reach the roof, thank Merlin, and can’t help but smile softly when he finds the door already open. The clear, slightly chilled air meets him in familiar greeting. Ben always goes to the roof when he can’t sleep.

He pushes the door open—it’s one of the few that doesn’t creak—and slips through. Immediately, he spots Ben, leaning his forearms on the railing, looking over the street below. His vividly maroon pajamas make Harry smile in amusement, tucking his wand away. Slowly, he crosses the space between them, past their wrought iron chairs and matching round table beside Ben’s modest garden.

Harry’s smile grows when he sees that Ben’s tomatoes are looking a little sad. Ben is… honestly not great at gardening, but Harry loves him for it. How many dinners would end differently if Ben’s tomatoes _weren’t_ a little too soft?

Harry reaches Ben’s side and leans against the railing, mirroring his partner’s stance. The street below is illuminated by obnoxiously yellow street lights, not a single soul in sight. 

“Morning,” Ben murmurs, voice thick from sleep. 

This close, Harry can see the white in Ben’s dark hair, the scar over his cheek, the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, and the looseness of his shoulders. The wind shifts, carrying the heavy sandalwood and vanilla of Ben’s shampoo over to Harry.

Warmth, safe and comforting and familiar, blossoms in Harry’s chest.

“Morning. What’re you doing up so early?” he asks. Ben raises his eyebrows, sparing Harry a _look_ that means the answer should be obvious. 

Harry wracks his brain for whatever information he’s forgetting, and then it hits him: it's the twenty-eighth of June. Dobby would’ve turned fifty today. 

The memories hit Harry, then, of Bellatrix’s knife buried deep in Dobby’s sternum, of him pressing Ron’s sweater against the wound, begging Hermione for the Dittany as she cried—and of Ben, apparating to the Shell Cottage only moments too late, staring in shock at the sight of Harry clutching Dobby’s limp body.

The memories are hazy, probably not even in the correct order, but they dispel any warmth he initially felt upon seeing Ben on the roof.

He long ago moved on from the horrors of the war, long since grieved for Dobby, but the pain sometimes sharpens until Harry’s world is blood-streaked faces and jagged green curses and screams of agony and _such a beautiful place to be with friends_ —

The street below has gone blurry, his forearms wet from tears dripping off his face, chest tight, and Harry’s hand finds Ben’s. Their fingers lock together—Ben’s are cold and calloused—and Harry squeezes, grounding himself in the present. The silk sleeve of Ben’s pajamas brush against his arm, and he takes a deep breath. 

_In, out._

“Sorry,” he whispers, shutting his eyes. “S’been too long for me to get like this.”

Ben snorts. “Why do you think _I’m_ up here? Time can’t heal everything.”

He squeezes Harry’s hand lightly. Harry exhales hard, sniffs, and wipes away his tears. His vision clears, the knot in his chest easing, and it feels… okay.

“I know you’re right. How do you _do_ that?” he mutters, more to himself than anything, but Ben replies anyways, voice faintly amused.

“Do what? Be right?”

Harry considers saying something light and off-handed, to make a joke that would lift the heavy feeling around them, but softens when Ben starts absently rubbing circles with his thumb on the back of Harry’s hand. 

“Make everything better,” he answers. Ben’s movements still momentarily, and he flushes brilliantly, scars standing out even more. Harry bites his lip to control the grin threatening to break on his face, but doesn’t look away. After fifteen long years together, the smallest things still make Ben blush.

“I think it speaks more about you than me if my grumpiness cheers you up.” 

“Oh, certainly not. To imagine _my_ Ben Ignatius Kreacher being _grumpy_...” Harry says dramatically, smirking at Ben’s carefully unamused expression, before he adds: “You’re more of the bitter old man type, anyway. Grumpy doesn’t suit you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Ben says matter-of-factly, not missing a beat, and Harry laughs. The sound is light and genuine, probably carrying into the street below, but Harry doesn’t really care. Ben’s lips twitch, eyes growing fond.

“You’re the idiot for sticking with me for so long,” Harry replies warmly. Ben shakes his head in exasperation.

“You may be onto something there,” he mutters. With another shake of his head and a slight smile, he leans in—Harry meets him halfway—and brushes their lips together in a slow, deep kiss. 

Ben tastes of vanilla and sleep and _safety_. 

With a content sigh, Harry breaks the kiss and loops his arm through Ben’s, entwining their fingers once again. He rests his head on Ben’s shoulder, soothed by his warmth.

They’re silent for a while, watching the trees across the street sway in the wind, the leaves brushing over each other softly. The smile gradually fades from Harry’s face, feeling no less content, but settling into the feeling. 

Eventually, Harry realizes that Ben isn’t wearing black. It’s such a small thing, yet it means so much, and he’s surprised that he didn’t notice it until now.

“Dobby would’ve been happy to see you wearing maroon on his birthday,” he whispers. He says it because he knows it’s true.

One beat, then two.

“I know,” Ben says simply. 

A gust of wind blows, the leaves rustle in the street below, and Ben rubs mindless circles on the back of Harry’s hand. 

_Happy birthday, Dobby._


End file.
